


Wide-Open Eyes

by Biscay



Series: Natural Turn [3]
Category: Home Fires (UK TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6600394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biscay/pseuds/Biscay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teresa and Alison aren't nearly as subtle as they think they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wide-Open Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> [mention of Alison's suicide attempt.]

Teresa and Alison have fallen into a comfortable routine: they alternate making meals for two during the week and cook together on the weekend. Teresa will get their ration books stamped on the way home from school each Wednesday. Laundry day is generally Sunday (unless the weather is poor), which Teresa prefers to do, while Alison mops and sweeps the floor. They attend monthly WI meetings together, and on Friday afternoons, during Boris' after-school walk, they will have afternoon tea at Steph's. 

Alison and Steph have never been particularly close – Steph kept mostly to herself up on the farm before the establishment of the New Women's Institute, and Alison kept almost entirely to herself in her cottage – but Teresa has brought them together. It is about a month into their scheduled afternoons, when Steph casually mentions the writing changing on some of the official forms, that Alison pieces together the reason for the invitation; Steph is a proud woman, not about to let a debt go unpaid, and Teresa, masterful at keeping secrets, hasn't said a word to anyone about Steph's literacy.

The upshot of the arrangement is tea, cake and conversation, all of which Alison craves at the end of a week spent hunched over accountancy papers. She has even been known to try a cake of her own - she's the treasurer of the WI, after all, and cake-making should be well within her skills. Teresa has helped clean up her less-than-stellar attempts on more than one occasion, affectionately wiping flour from her forehead, kissing a dusting of sugar from her cheek.

“You mustn't use your sugar rations like this!” Steph says as Alison presents a modest victoria sandwich.

Teresa settles down next to Alison on the sofa. “It's all right, she steals mine.”

“How's life on the farm?” Alison asks. 

“Same old – we put the cabbages in this week. The government seems worried about blight, so they don't want us putting all our potatoes in one basket, so to speak. How's school?”

“As of today, we're on half-term holiday,” Teresa says with a grin, “don't let it fool you, though; there's lessons to plan, liaising with education officers in London – and I might even give weeding the garden a go if the weather holds.”

“Alison, you're letting this one loose in your garden? Miss doesn't-know-the-difference-between-swedes-and-turnips?”

“Oh, make fun of the city girl,” Teresa laughs, and Alison is taken aback by how easy, how comfortable this is; a far cry from the power plays of the WI. Alison generally finds small-talk incredibly difficult - her profession doesn't exactly lend itself to witty anecdotes - but she enjoys how relaxed around each other Steph and Teresa are. She knows first-hand, of course, how disarming Teresa can be, with her hugs and stories and jokes that leave Alison utterly helpless. Alison sips her tea and quietly considers how lucky she is.

“How's young Stan getting on?”

“He's doing well – his reading's come so far, Teresa, you wouldn't believe it.”

“I bet I would.”

“It's such a weight off, knowing he's protected. It's bad enough big Stan being gone.”

“It must be so difficult-”

“No point getting sad about it." Steph says, topping up everyone's tea. "Besides, nearly every woman in Great Paxford has to deal with her other half off fighting in countries they can't point to on a map. You two have the right idea.”

Alison nearly chokes on her tea.

“I didn't-” Steph says, then pauses, “am I embarrassing myself? Tell me if I am.”

Teresa and Alison share a look which they all know answers Steph's question. 

“Good.” Steph says, helping herself to a slice of cake, “I was worried I was losing my marbles.” 

And there it is, just like Steph's reading. Something acknowledged, sometimes even joked about, but secret and safe. Alison wasn't lying when she told Teresa that she didn't have many friends, but she knows she's found a good one in Steph Farrow.

* * *

“You don't have to be so cloak-and-dagger about this,” Alison says after their third meeting in the garden (the second time it had been raining – either Frances didn't notice or didn't care – and when Alison came back inside Teresa asked no questions but ran her a hot bath). 

Frances looks uneasy.

“Look, I understand, but it's just Teresa. And Boris. And I can guarantee that neither will say anything.”

Frances considers this for a moment. “Oh, all right.”

Even so, Teresa excuses herself upstairs or out for a walk with Boris when Frances comes over, politely removing herself so Frances doesn't have to worry about being overheard. The arrangement continues until one week, as Teresa begins to gather up her stack of exercise books, Frances says “please don't leave on my account. This is your house.”

Alison isn't sure exactly when her house became _our_ house, and it's strange to hear that the small linguistic difference has made its way into the vernacular of the wider village. It's not bad-strange, though, which surprises her. Alison has spent most of her life being afraid: afraid of her strict parents, afraid of both wars, afraid of her neighbours discovering her name is a lie – but Teresa makes her feel brave. 

“It's time for Boris' walk, anyway,” Teresa says politely, leaving them to it. But the following week she makes tea for the three of them before heading out, and the week after she continues planning her lessons in the kitchen while Alison and Frances discuss business numbers in the lounge. 

Some time later, as Frances is packing her ledgers and folders away, she mentions, apropos of nothing (possibly, Alison considers later, apropos of her shorthand 'thank you' touch to Teresa's arm as she brings over a cup of tea, the shared smile when Frances talks about Joyce, the way Teresa helps Alison reshelve her books) “it's… heartwarming. To see you both doing so well.”

A moment of silence.

“All this business. You would think that finding out one's husband is a scoundrel would rather tarnish one's view of romance.” Frances considers for a moment. “And I rather suppose it has. But even so, it is good to see that you two are... doing well together.”

Teresa's eyes widen in panic. “Frances, you don't-”

“My dear, the pair of you have been nothing but discreet and kind concerning… aspects of my personal life. I have no desire to do anything but return the favour.”

Neither Alison or Teresa knows what to say to that, both a little agape while Frances packs her bags and bids them farewell. 

Alison breaks the stunned silence left in Frances' wake with a giggle that turns into a laugh and before long the pair are leaning against each other for support.

* * *

The air raids never really become routine. They are a damned inconvenience, but between the spine-rattling tremors that feel much too close and the headlines that beat even Germany's most recent advances to the front page of the local newspaper – DIRECT HIT IN LITTLE WESTERBY: 35 FEARED DEAD – they remain as tense and frightening as ever.

It's strange, but raids where there are children present are somehow easier; everyone forces themselves to hold it together in an attempt to not cause further distress. Teresa has been known to start sing-alongs, the adults always keen to join in because anything is a distraction from their own helplessness. But when the air raid sirens sound in the middle of a WI meeting, the youngest person crammed into the dark room is Claire, fear written across her features as though being in the shelter is scarier than manning the telephone exchange in the thick of it, a dented tin hat for protection. A quake shakes the shelter, a collective intake of breath, and Alison realises that the shelter _is_ probably scarier, with everyone's fear feeding off each other. 

In the deafening silence between shells, Alison considers how much things have changed in a year. How she tried to take her own life, an act of desperation rationalised by the thought that she would barely be missed anyway. And now the fear of being killed is so great because she's terrified of dying. She reaches for Teresa's hand (their corner of the shelter is near-dark anyway) and thinks about how cosmically unfair it would be to die here, now, when she has quite literally in her grasp so much more to live for than her grouchy old dog. 

Another bomb drops and Alison flinches, squeezes her eyes shut and grips Teresa's hand. When the tremors pass and she opens her eyes – dust shaken from the ceiling blinked away – she catches Erica across the shelter, looking at them. In a fraction of a second, Erica's eyes flick from Alison's face, to her and Teresa's joined hands, and away. Fear bubbles up because Alison _knows_ Erica knows, but the fear is still, strangely, an afterthought compared to the threat of German bombs. Still, she pulls her hand back from Teresa (Teresa lets her go; never pushing, never demanding anything) and they wait out the rest of the storm together. 

Alison manages to pull Erica aside in the exodus from the shelter – everyone is a little dazed, a little tentative, grateful to have survived for a few minutes before the extent of the damage is revealed, and the inconvenience of smashed windows and broken roof tiles clouds the simple joy of being alive. 

“Alison.” Erica says before Alison can open her mouth, “I won't say a word.”

“Teresa's a schoolteacher-” Alison says helplessly. 

Erica steers them away from the crowd. Teresa watches them from a distance, and Alison sees her fiddle with her gas mask box, an anxious tell nobody else would notice. 

“Alison, I wouldn't dream of saying anything to anyone. Aside from the fact you're a friend, after what our family's been through and what Teresa's done for our Laura, how could I repay her kindness with gossip?”

“What kindness?”

“Some people have nothing better to do than judge the actions of others. Teresa thinks as little of them as I do.” she drops her voice to a whisper and leans in. “You've got yourself a good one there.”

“Erica-” Alison blushes, “how-?”

Erica smiles enigmatically. “The way you two danced at Kate and Jack's wedding.”

“We weren't-”

Erica pats Alison's arm in reassurance, then walks away to rejoin her husband. People are filtering away from the shelter and after a few moments Teresa comes over, keeping a careful distance. 

“Is everything all right?” she asks.

“Yes,” Alison says with a secret smile, as they head for home, “Erica Campbell is an extraordinarily observant woman.”


End file.
